Est Il Froid?
by SleepyBard
Summary: Is He Cold? Tens and nines continue to pass you by. Love is oft written in trivial rhymes.


**Title:** Est-il Froid? (Is He Cold?)  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco, Implied Harry/Ginny  
**Chapter:** 1/1  
**Wordcount:** 944  
**Rating:** PG  
**Warning:** Second POV, Kind of epilogue compliant, Implied major character death but **not** meant to be melodramatic/angsty  
**Summary:** _Tens and nines continue to pass you by. Love is oft written in trivial rhymes._  
**Confession:** Not mine. Except for mistakes  
**Author's Note:** Unbeta'ed, all mistakes are mine.

* * *

Imagine seeing what was there before realising what wasn't.

Would you accept it? Would you take it in your hands and hold it, knowing it was real? Would you embrace it?

What about his hand, what would you do with those pale fingers, how tightly would you clutch at his palm? Are you red yet, like the draperies, like the sheets, like his flush?

Imagine the people you will see as this life continues to pass by. Many shaken hands, many downcast glances, many wasted moments to recite insincere apologies or even worse, actual heartfelt regrets. And where will he be? In that bathroom still, forever pale, forever ambivalent, unforgiving, cold?

Is he cold?

Down farther, where no one ventures, who will you see? In the depths of your mistakes, whose eyes will look into yours? There might be fear, will you look away?

Press your hands against your ears and refuse the crackles of the fire around you. Who started these flames and who will put them out? Perhaps if water were time…

Or if wishes were horses, perhaps you'd never walk again. You'd never reveal the hidden thoughts, the mistakes you acknowledge only in your grieving heart.

But wishes are shoes, muddy and worn and you only have a single pair. What good will they do?

They do, indeed. They lead you down the aisle, empty pews on one side and filled to the brim on the either. Does that make sense to you? An incestuous love you've accepted but why?

Her hair is a faux red, her love is blind and can't remember that it's not real because it is locked away forever in a diary. Did you read it? Did you burn it? Did you destroy it?

Did it destroy you?

Who knows who and who loves who? Can you stand there and say 'I do'? _Do_ you? Does he?

Is he cold?

One more step and the soles of your shoes match the soul of your existence. Stained, torn, who can understand? Who can patch those shoes, who can save that soul, who can grant that lonely wish?

Where is he, do you see him? He is standing somewhere, watching and observing but never touching. You stole from him and he stole right back, and together you take, take, take until what was his is yours and what was yours is his.

Whose hand is in yours now? Whose eyes do you see now? Are they the same ones your wish wishes for?

And that affection you protect so carefully, the last possession you truly own, is it even yours or is that too, his now? Whose is it really and who is it _really_ being given to?

Take what weapon you still possess and store it away because it is cold. Put it somewhere dark, where no light can touch it, no oil can smooth it, no magic can save it, because it is cold.

Is he cold?

The time is running all around you. Count by tens, count by nines and waste away these unwanted times. Where is he again? In that bathroom?

What does your heart long for? The comfort from a gold friend or the understanding from a silver foe? Who is the enemy now and who actually brings woe?

Some scars run deeper than branded skin. You are unmarked save one jagged line but what about him? He is not unscathed.

Who cast those first words? You cannot deny but you continue to try and even she is bitter now. You have born a son and given him purpose and even though you cannot remember what yours is, you accept his.

You are warm in your home. A gentle gesture soothes away nightmares and then a voice asks you what they were of. That taste coming from your mouth is a great distance from the truth but she doesn't know. Maybe he would. Would he? You've counted by tens and nines and it's been so long now that you do not know for certain so you wonder…

Is he cold?

Like the fire you once denied, whistles too try to pierce your awareness. You stand with a warm hand in yours but it is too hot and the grip is too tight because there exists a paucity of trust in that gap between the two of you. The son you gave to this world is smiling and waving from a vessel journeying to a place you once called home. If he is hesitant to leave you he does not show it. How does that make you feel? Is it even real?

And there, o' there, he is there. A handshake? Approval? What can he give you?

A nod.

He gives you a nod and you wonder if it is enough. Not for yourself, you know it's not enough for yourself, but you wonder if it'll do for him. And then you contemplate why you care.

Tens and nines continue to pass you by. Love is oft written in trivial rhymes.

You've counted times and you've counted years and moments and all those little things in between. Those numbers are so big…If only you had horses to help you carry them.

But alas, you chose shoes to take you through this life. A single pair of shoes like a single wish, granted but with only a single kiss. And you took that kiss, for it patched your shoes, meaning it fulfilled your wish, but only after counting many, many tens and nines since that single nod.

Now you are both cold, but only after you saw what was there, and yet never realised what wasn't.


End file.
